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9 

ARTHUR  HOPKINS 


HOW'S  YOUR  SECOND  ACT? 


PLAYS   PRODUCED 
BY    MR.    HOPKINS 

ON  TRIAL 

THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL 
GOOD  GRACIOUS  ANNABELLE 
THE  SUCCESSFUL  CALAMITY 
THE  GYPSY  TRAIL 


HOWS  YOUR 
SECOND  ACT? 

BY  ARTHUR  HOPKINS 


WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 
GEORGE  JEAN  NATHAN 


PHILIP    GOODMAN    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  NINETEEN  EIGHTEEN 


COPYRIGHT  1018  BY 
PHILIP  GOODMAN   COMPANY 


'    V 

I (ffQ. 

HI 


FOREWORD 


One  of  the  cardinal  arguments — if  not 
the  cardinal  argument — poised  generally 
against  the  theatrical  manager  of  the  old 
order  was  that  he  was  guilty  of  the  gross 
misdemeanor  of  smoking  large,  black 
cigars  and  not  merely  that,  but  smoking 
them  in  his  side  teeth  at  a  tilt  of  thirty- 
five  degrees.  The  relevance  of  this  de- 
vastating deposition  has  always  baffled 
me,  since  it  appears  Mark  Twain  was 
guilty  of  the  same  faux  pas,  and  yet  at 
the  same  time  contrived  to  be  one  of  the 
greatest  geniuses  America  has  produced. 
True  enough,  the  tilted  cigar  did  not 
make  of  the  old  order  manager  a  picture 
to  cerise  the  cheek  of  the  flapper  nor  to 
stimulate  the  esthetic  sense  of  a  Sargent, 
but  it  is  still  pretty  difficult  to  figure  out 
just  what  bearing  it  had  upon  his  talent 
or,  more  pertinently,  his  lack  of  talent. 

The  fact  remains,  however,  that  cigar 
or  no  cigar,  the  theatrical  manager  of  the 
yesterday  is   rapidly  passing  out   of  the 


field  of  drama.  He  is  passing  out  of  the 
field  of  drama,  where  he  doubtless  never 
belonged,  and  into  the  field  of  theatre 
management,  the  field  in  which  he  had  his 
beginnings  and  the  field  to  which  he  is 
unquestionably  best  suited.  The  old-time 
manager  is,  in  short,  passing  once  more 
into  the  state  of  mere  business  man.  His 
ramble  into  the  drama  as  a  producing 
manager  shows  signs  of  being  at  an  end. 
And  while  this  end  may  not  yet  be  direct- 
ly at  hand,  it  is  daily  looming  larger  and 
larger;  and  it  would,  indeed,  seem  safe 
to  predict  that  his  evanescence  into  his 
pristine  shape — the  shape  of  business  man 
pure  and  simple — is  even  nearer  at  hand 
than  our  eyes  may  lead  us  believe. 

The  day  of  the  new  order  is  here.  The 
old  manager,  who  thought  Dan  Nunzio 
the  name  of  the  Italian  bootblack  on  the 
corner  and  who  believed  Sue  Dermann  was 
probably  the  name  of  some  German  mani- 
cure girl  in  a  Broadway  hotel,  is  being 
relegated  to  the  counting  room,  and  in 
his  place  there  has  come,  or  at  least  there 
is  coming,  the  new  manager,  a  fellow  of 
taste  and  of  ideals,  a  man  to  whom  the 


theatre  represents  something  more  than  a 
mere  show  bourse,  something  finer  than  a 
mere  display  platform  for  the  kind  of 
passetemps,  however  remunerative,  in 
which  false  whiskers  are  made  to  pass  for 
characterization  and  in  which  any  allu- 
sion to  the  New  York,  New  Haven  and 
Hartford  Railway  is  looked  on  as  an 
amazingly  fine  piece  of  wit.  To  this  new 
type  of  producing  manager,  the  stage  rep- 
resents something  more  than  an  elevation 
designed  primarily  for  the  celebration  of 
the  symmetrical  female  limb  at  the  ex- 
pense of  symmetrical  dramatic  literature, 
for  the  apotheosis  of  the  humor  of  the 
pancake  derby  over  the  wit  of  quick  mind 
and  observing  eye. 

Of  these  newcomers,  one  of  the  most  en- 
gaging is  Mr.  Arthur  Hopkins,  and  it  is 
he  I  here  introduce  to  you.  It  is 
said  of  Hopkins — it  is  being  said  and  re- 
peated daily — that  he  is  the  most  promis- 
ing of  all  the  new  producers.  This  is  ab- 
surd. Hopkins  is  not  promising:  he  has 
already  fulfilled  his  promise.  I  do  not, 
obviously,  mean  to  say  that  he  has  proved 
himself  a  great  innovator,  a  great  imagi- 


nation,  or  a  great  producer.  He  has 
proved  himself  nothing  of  the  kind.  But 
he  has  proved  himself — quite  patently,  we 
are  dealing  here  only  in  comparisons — the 
best  new  man  in  the  American  theatre. 
What  he  will  prove  himself  to-morrow — 
for  good  or  bad — I  am  no  crystal-gazer  to 
predict. 

In  the  first  place,  Hopkins  probably 
possesses  to  a  greater  degree  than  any 
other  American  producing  manager — new 
or  old — the  editorial  instinct  so  far  as  re- 
spectable dramatic  manuscripts  are  con- 
cerned. It  was  this  instinct  that  per- 
mitted him,  where  his  contemporaries  had 
failed,  to  detect  in  Miss  Gates'  "Poor  Lit- 
tle Rich  Girl"  the  fine  play  that  was 
there.  It  was  this  instinct  that  caused 
him  to  see  in  a  music  show  libretto 
("Good  Gracious  Annabelle")  not  a  mere 
music  show  libretto,  but  a  first-rate  fan- 
tastic farce.  It  was  this  instinct  that  saw 
the  smart  humors  in  the  Kummer  comedy, 
"A  Successful  Calamity,"  where  even  so 
astute  a  man — and  so  sharp  a  judge  of 
popular  values — as  George  Cohan  had 
failed.     It  is  this  instinct  that  has  caused 

8 


him  to  plan  the  production  of  a  play  by 
one  of  the  foremost  literary  artists  of  the 
country,  a  play  on  which  it  is  safe  to  as- 
sume no  other  producer  would  take  a 
chance.  Hopkins  knows  literary  values 
and  the  value  of  viewpoint.  Even  in  his 
failures  there  are  easily  to  be  detected 
the  points  which  he  himself  saw  in  the 
manuscripts,  points  one  can  readily  sym- 
pathize with  and,  even  where  failure  was 
deserved,  understand.  He  is  never  shoddy, 
never  cheap,  never  illiterate. 

Nor  is  Hopkins  a  mere  idealist.  He  is, 
at  bottom,  a  first-rate  theatre  man.  And 
where  the  records  show  that  he  has  failed 
to  extract  profit  from  a  good  play  like 
"The  Deluge,"  they  also  show  that  he 
could  see  the  monetary  winkings  in  a  mere 
melodrama  like  "On  Trial"  after  so  ex- 
perienced a  firm  as  the  Selwyns  had  per- 
emptorily rejected  it.  It  takes  money  to 
put  on  good  plays  that  fail.  And  Hop- 
kins, feeling  his  ground,  knows  the  trick. 
And  this  trick  makes  him  not  less  the 
idealist,  but  more.  It  is  one  thing  to 
make  money  with  a  bad  play.  It  is  an- 
other thing  to  spend  the  money  one  has 


made  on  one  bad  play  in  putting  on  two 
good  plays. 

Hopkins  is  the  first  producing  manager 
we  have  had  in  the  later  theatre  of  Amer- 
ica to  give  actual  encouragement  to  the 
American  playwright.  Not  the  sort  of 
American  playwright  whom  such  produc- 
ers as  the  old-time  producing  managers 
encouraged — the  Charles  Kleins,  Charles 
T.  Dazeys  and  such — but  the  American 
with  something  to  say  and  with  skill  to 
say  it  and  with  humor  and  fancy  to  ad- 
dress and  embellish  it.  For  the  slangy 
jokes  of  the  telephone  girls  of  the  plays 
of  the  Owen  Davises  he  has  substituted 
the  polite  wit  of  Clare  Kummer.  For  the 
pasteboard  and  tinsel  imaginings  of  the 
dying  Little  Evas  and  the  electric  light 
gymnasiums  of  the  Peter  Grimms  of  the 
American  drama,  he  has  substituted  the 
happy  fancies  of  Eleanor  Gates.  For  the 
drama  of  Central  Office  detectives  and  ex- 
pert counterfeiters,  he  has  given  us  the 
drama  of  human  souls  of  such  as  Hennig 
Berger.  Where  other  producers  elect  to 
fail  with  plays  arguing  eloquently  that 
every     Japanese     valet     is     a     military 

10 


agent  of  the  Mikado  in  disguise,  Hopkins 
elects  to  fail  with  plays  like  "The  Devil's 
Garden"  and  "The  Happy  Ending"— bad 
plays,  true  enough,  but  plays  at  least  pos- 
sessed of  a  theme  that  may  be  listened  to 
without  an  amused  sense  of  disgust  by 
such  persons  as  are  tutored  beyond  the 
point  of  believing  that  all  dachshunds 
come  from  Germany  and  that  no  police- 
man is  able  to  start  a  sentence  without 
prefacing  his  remarks  with  a  "begorra." 

When,  in  the  desert,  the  traveler  sees 
even  the  mirage  of  an  oasis,  he  is  grate- 
ful. It  is  quite  possible  that  I  am  some- 
what too  enthusiastic  about  Hopkins.  He 
may  disappoint  us  in  the  days  to  come ;  he 
may  lead  us  on  and  may  then  make  mock 
of  us.  But  I  scarcely  feel  that  he  will. 
And  even  if  he  should,  his  record  to  the 
moment  stands  still  intact.  In  slightly 
more  than  two  years  he  has  brought 
freshness,  life  and  renewed  interest  to  our 
native  theatre.  And  the  best  part  of  it 
is  that  he  has  done  this  by  centering  his 
attention  first  and  last  upon  the  manu- 
script of  the  play.  The  play  is  his 
weapon,    from    beginning    to    end.      His 

ii 


pleasant  scenic  investitures  are  just  that — 
pleasant.  No  more.  His  lighting,  bor- 
rowed from  abroad,  and  his  movable  pro- 
scenium, borrowed  from  the  same  source, 
are  respectively  agreeable  and  workable. 
But  not  important  in  themselves.  His 
play  is  ever  the  thing.  And  upon  it  he 
wisely  fixed  almost  the  whole  of  his  atten- 
tion. What  were  his  beginnings  in  the 
world,  what  was  his  training,  I  do  not 
know  and  care  less.  But  he  has  an  in- 
stinctive sense  of  form,  a  sense  of  beauty, 
that  seem  to  prevail  upon  him  when  his 
eyes  roll  across  the  pages  of  the  submitted 
play  manuscript.  Further,  there  is  in  him 
nothing  of  the  toady  or  snob.  An  Eng- 
lishman's altiloquent  name  means  nothing 
to  him.  He  would  as  lief — indeed,  rather 
— consider  the  play  of  some  obscure 
Washington  Square  amateur  like  Mr. 
Philip  Moeller.  Merit  is  the  one  consid- 
eration. He  would  make  a  first-rate  edi- 
tor for  a  first-rate  magazine. 

Nor  do  names  of  actors  mean  every- 
thing with  him,  as  they  do  with  the  ma- 
jority of  his  colleagues.  True,  he  has  his 
share    of    so-called    stars,    some    capable, 


12 


some  pretty  bad;  but  he  also  has  always 
with  him  his  hitherto  unknown  Geraldine 
O'Briens  and  Roland  Youngs.  The  new 
man  of  talent,  the  new  woman  of  talent, 
meet  hospitable  ear. 

As  a  director,  Hopkins  is  possessed  of 
uncommon  good  sense.  A  follower,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  of  the  method 
obtaining  in  the  famous  Little  Theatre  of 
Berlin  and  the  Carltheater  of  Vienna — 
and  the  Manchester  Theatre,  which  imi- 
tates this  method — he  has  demonstrated 
that  he  places  his  trust  entirely  in  a  su- 
perlatively rigid  simplicity  of  treatment. 
He  abjures  all  hocus-pocus,  all  showy 
pretence.  He  hires  capable  actors,  tells 
them  briefly  what  the  play  is  about  and 
how  he  desires  them  to  interpret  it,  and 
then,  with  merely  a  slight  touch  here,  a 
slight  touch  there,  visited  upon  the  pic- 
ture during  the  process  of  rehearsal,  per- 
mits the  machine  to  get  under  way.  No 
elaborate  crossings  from  right  to  left,  no 
leanings  on  mantelpieces,  no  haltings  at 
doorways — none  of  the  excess  baggage  of 
the  Broadway  direction.  He  presents  his 
manuscript  in  the  manner  of  a  story  sim- 

13 


ply  and  easily  read.  His  production  of 
"A  Successful  Calamity"  demonstrates  his 
way  of  going  about  things  and  the  results 
accruing  therefrom.  I  understand,  on  un- 
impeachable authority,  that  Hopkins 
spoke  not  more  than  a  dozen  words  at 
most  during  all  the  time  he  was  making 
this  manuscript  ready  for  public  unveil- 
ing. He  uses  no  booming  megaphone,  like 
Mr.  Augustus  Thomas,  to  direct  the  pan- 
taloons and  stagehands.  He  employs  no 
peep-hole,  like  Mr.  Belasco,  to  watch  in 
secret  the  progress  of  his  mimes  and  then, 
in  the  final  rehearsal  throes  to  descend 
upon  the  scene  and  "mysteriously,"  "un- 
cannily," hit  upon  this  defect  and  that. 
He  does  not  divest  himself  of  coat  and 
waistcoat  and,  in  gaudy  suspenders,  di- 
rect the  rehearsal  in  terms  of  a  Robert 
Service  Yukon  ballad.  He  seems  to  ap- 
preciate that  if  the  play  is  a  good  play 
and  worth  doing  at  all  it  will  pretty 
nearly  play  itself. 

Details  bother  him  little.  He  is  for 
generalities.  The  important  thing  is  to 
him,  in  direction,  the  important  thing. 
He  is  an  innovator  only  in  the  sense  that 

14 


he  is  not  an  innovator.  He  is  not  con- 
cerned with  bizarre  new  drapings  for  the 
proscenium  arch  or  fancy  lighting  effects 
the  like  of  which  never  were  on  land  or 
ship  or  stages  that  are  built  in  the  shape 
of  doughnuts  or  any  other  such  marks 
of  the  ubiquitous  modern  innovator.  His 
theatre  is  at  once  as  old  fashioned  and 
as  new  as  a  bronze  plaque — and  as  at- 
tractive. 

I  have  admitted  that  I  may  be  unduly 
commendatory  to  Hopkins,  that  I  may 
seem  to  be  jumping  in  to  praise  him  a 
trifle  ahead  of  the  appropriate  time.  But 
I  am  happy  in  the  indiscretion,  if  indis- 
cretion it  is.  For  he  has  set  himself 
against  all  that  is  snide  and  all  that  is 
pompously  cheap  in  our  professional 
showshop.  And  not  only  against  what  is 
shoddy  and  pretentiously  mean  on  the 
stage  of  that  showshop,  but  likewise 
against  what  is  vulgar  in  its  auditorium. 
With  the  opening  of  his  new  theatre,  he 
has  placed  himself  on  record  against  the 
typical  gang  of  regular  first-nighters  who 

IS 


with  loud  ignorance  and  illiterate  manner 
have  smelled  out  of  court  so  much  that 
has  been  intrinsically  worth  while  in 
drama,  and  whose  obstreperous  blockheads 
have  in  the  past  gone  so  far  in  spelling 
the  failure  of  such  praiseworthy  plays  as 
"General  John  Regan,"  and  "The  Incu- 
bus," and  "Where  Ignorance  is  Bliss." 
Upon  this  unhealthy  crew,  this  melange  of 
songwriters,  moving-picture  actors,  cham- 
pagne impresarios  and  Broadway  pos- 
turers,  Hopkins  has  bestowed  a  certificate 
of  discharge.  He  will,  if  the  power  is 
within  him,  sound  the  death  knell  of  the 
death  watch. 

If  there  is  a  new  word  in  the  American 
professional  theatre,  that  word  is  Hop- 
kins. It  means  to  this  professional  the- 
atre what  the  name  of  such  organizations 
as  the  Washington  Square  Players  means 
currently  to  the  American  amateur  the- 
atre, and  what  this  latter  name  will  very, 
very  shortly  mean  also  to  the  professional 
theatre:  the  meaning  of  finer  drama  more 
intelligently  played  and  more  beautifully 

16 


staged.  To  Hopkins,  with  all  his  defects, 
with  all  his  faults,  and  with  his  future 
still  ahead  of  him,  my  very  best  wishes, 
and  an  extra  pull  of  my  thumb. 

George  Jean  Nathan. 

New  York,  January,  1918. 


17 


HOW'S  YOUR  SECOND  ACT  ? 


Under  the  present  system  of  theatrical 
producing  in  America  the  fate  of  the  the- 
atre is  very  largely  in  the  hands  of  a  com- 
parative few — the  New  York  producing 
managers.  Their  aims,  inclinations  and 
tastes  very  largely  determine  what  shall 
pass  as  dramatic  art  in  all  the  centers, 
large  and  small,  where  people  gather  for 
illusionment. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  the  public 
demands  what  it  shall  have  since  this  pre- 
supposes some  standard  already  fixed  by 
the  public,  and  up  to  now,  so  far  as  its 
taste  in  the  theatre  is  concerned,  the 
American  public  has  not  set  up  one  re- 
quirement. A  play  may  be  without  merit 
in  writing,  acting  or  direction — it  may 
not  contain  a  single  thought  worthy  the 
utterance  of  a  backward  child — its  humor 
may  be  the  brand  that  pulls  chairs  from 
under  unsuspecting  fat  men — its  drama 
the  kind  that  brings  the  wayward  boy  into 
the  cottage  as  mother  is  praying  for  his 
return — its   acting  may  be   of  the   smile- 

19 


a- 


coldly  -  light  -  a  -  cigarette  -  you're 
villain  brand,  look-patient-and-tender-un- 
der-all-in  justice — and-you're-a-hero  brand 
— it  may  be  false,  trivial,  vulgar,  untrue, 
unreal,  inept,  deadly  dull,  duller  than 
churches  or  mid-west  landscapes  or  dead 
love  letters — and  yet  be  received  by 
pleased  multitudes  throughout  the  land  as 
"a  great  show" — an  appellation  which 
conveys  a  bitter  truth — it  is  a  great  show 
— a  great  show  of  the  pathetic  lack  of 
discernment  of  the  untutored  majority. 

I  repeat  that  there  are  no  standards, 
no  requirements,  no  demands.  The  whole 
matter  is  left  wholly  in  the  hands  of  a 
few  New  York  producers,  who,  upon 
choosing  a  play,  choose  a  play  that  ap- 
peals to  their  tastes,  their  preference, 
their  understanding.  A  play  outside  their 
understanding  cannot  possibly  appeal  to 
them,  so  necessarily  the  theatrical  fare  of 
America  is  determined  by  the  best  under- 
standing of  this  few. 

Being  one  who  clings  to  the  belief  that 
the  theatre  can  be  a  great  agency  for  de- 
velopment— that  it  can  greatly  aid  in  the 
spread  of  culture  and  breeding  and  the 


20 


growth  of  sounder  logic — that  it  can  ul- 
timately reach  a  place  where  it  helps  man- 
kind to  a  better  human  understanding,  to 
a  deeper  social  pity  and  to  a  wider  tol- 
erance of  all  that  is  life,  I  am  somewhat 
awed  by  the  responsibility  that  is  borne  so 
lightly  by  the  New  York  few,  and  I  am 
wishing  that  I  could  hold  a  revival  among 
them  and  exhort  them  and  pray  for  them 
and  to  them,  and  bring  about  a  great  re- 
demption in  the  light  of  which  we  would 
all  cast  off  the  glamor  of  hits  and  long 
runs  and  number  eight  companies  and 
press  agent's  eulogies  and  turn  our  faces 
toward  America  and  say  to  all  America : 
"If  there  is  any  way  we  can  make  life  a 
little  better,  a  little  gentler,  a  little  kinder 
— we  will  try  to  find  the  way." 

For  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  believe 
there  is  no  popular  place  in  America  for 
worthy  drama.  It  is  a  taste  that  is  cul- 
tivated, but  cannot  be  cultivated  until  the 
people  have  repeated  opportunities  to  re- 
spond to  it. 

And  then  some  one  asks:  "Where  are 
the  good  plays?"  The  good  plays  will 
come  when  good  plays  are  produced,  for 


21 


there  is  no  one  who  suffers  more  under 
present  conditions  than  the  author.  Any 
potential  playwright  must  necessarily  be 
discouraged  by  the  types  of  plays  that  are 
chosen  for  production.  In  any  form  of 
art  the  acceptance  of  the  spurious  is  in- 
evitably a  douche  to  the  birth  of  merit. 
A  real  artist  will  not  stoop  to  readjust- 
ment, and  on  the  other  hand  he  is  fearful 
of  exposing  his  work  to  the  gaze  of  a 
judge  who  is  pleased  with  mediocrity. 

How  many  good  plays  have  never  been 
written  because  the  authors  witnessed  a 
few  Broadway  successes  we  shall  never 
know.  How  many  bad  plays  are  written 
for  the  very  same  reason  I  am  reminded 
of  by  every  mail. 

One  condition  is  responsible  for  the 
other.  The  great  day  for  the  theatre  will 
come  when  we  decide  that  henceforth  our 
intentions  shall  be  honorable.  There  will 
be  an  appreciative  public,  authors  who  re- 
spond to  its  appreciation,  and  producers 
who  bring  them  together. 


22 


II 


The  chief  criticism  of  temporary  pro- 
ducing is  that  it  lacks  either  policy  or 
design.  The  average  production  is  the  re- 
sult of  no  fixed  coordination.  It  has  fre- 
quently been  said  of  my  productions,  that 
they  conveyed  a  certain  sustained  illusion 
that  seemed  not  to  be  of  the  theatre.  I 
believe  this  in  a  sense  to  be  true,  for  it  is 
the  result  of  a  definite  experimental  pol- 
icy which  I  have  followed  vigorously, 
bringing  it  more  and  more  to  bear  in  each 
new  production. 

What  was  originally  experimental  has 
now  become  a  fixed  method,  and  I  hope 
definitely  to  demonstrate  that  there  is  a 
way  to  insure  invariably  the  projection  of 
nearly  all  the  values  a  play  may  possess. 

From  the  very  beginning  I  had  an  ab- 
horrence of  all  that  is  generally  termed 
theatric.  It  seemed  cheap  and  tawdry,  the 
trick  of  the  street  fakir.  I  thought  for  a 
long  time  that  my  prejudice  was  personal 
and  not  well   founded.      But,  finally,   all 

23 


protest  and  all  new  seeking  began  nat- 
urally to  fall  into  line  with  a  theory  of 
direction  that  had  slowly  been  evolving 
in  my  mind — the  theory  which  for  the 
want  of  a  better  term  I  have  defined  as 
Unconscious  Projection. 

Briefly,  the  basis  of  the  theory  is  this : 
Complete  illusion  has  to  do  entirely  with 
the  unconscious  mind.  Except  in  the  case 
of  certain  intellectual  plays  the  theatre 
is  wholly  concerned  with  the  unconscious 
mind  of  the  audience.  The  conscious 
mind  should  play  no  part. 

The  theatre  is  always  seeking  unani- 
mous reaction.  It  is  palpably  evident  that 
unanimous  reaction  from  conscious  minds 
is  practically  impossible.  Seat  a  dozen 
people  in  a  room,  present  them  any  prob- 
lem which  you  ask  them  consciously  to 
solve,  and  you  will  get  nearly  as  many 
different  reactions  as  there  are  people ;  but 
place  five  thousand  people  in  a  room  and 
strike  some  note  or  appeal  that  is  asso- 
ciated with  an  unconscious  idea  common 
to  all  of  them,  and  you  will  get  a  prac- 
tically unanimous  reaction.  In  the  the- 
atre I  do  not  want  the  emotion  that  rises 

24 


out  of  thought,  but  the  thought  that  rises 
out  of  emotion.  The  emotional  reaction 
must  be  secured  first. 

The  problem  now  arises :  "How  can  we 
in  the  theatre  confine  ourselves  to  the  un- 
conscious mind?"  The  hypnotist  has  sup- 
plied us  with  the  answer:  "Still  the  con- 
scious mind."  The  hypnotist's  first  effort 
is  to  render  inoperative  the  conscious 
mind  of  the  subject.  With  that  out  of 
the  way  he  can  direct  his  commands  to  an 
undistracted  unconscious  and  get  definite 
reactions.  The  subject  has  no  opportu- 
nity to  think  about  it. 

In  the  theatre  we  can  secure  a  similar 
result  by  giving  the  audience  no  reason  to 
think  about  it,  by  presenting  every  phase 
so  unobtrusively,  so  free  from  confusing 
gesture,  movement  and  emphasis,  that  all 
passing  action  seems  inevitable,  so  that  we 
are  never  challenged  or  consciously  asked 
why.  This  whole  treatment  begins  first 
with  the  manuscript,  continues  through 
the  designing  of  the  settings,  and  follows 
carefully  every  actor's  movement  and  in- 
flection. If,  throughout,  this  attitude  of 
easy  flow  can  be  maintained  the  complete 

25 


illusionment  of  the  audience  is  inevitable. 
At  first  glance  one  might  say  that  any 
method  which  discards  conscious  digestion 
must    necessarily     be    limited    in     scope. 
The  answer    is    that    we    begin    by  dis- 
carding  conscious   irritation,   proceed   to 
an    unconscious    introduction,    and    then 
abide     by     the     conscious     verdict,     for, 
inevitably,  all  the  unconscious  reaction  is 
wasted  if  the  conscious  ultimately  rejects 
us.     Or  to  put  it  more  simply,  if  you  give 
our  story  complete  attention  and  then  re- 
ject us,  we  have  no  complaint;  but  if  we 
feel  that  you  have  not  properly  felt  our 
story   because   of   confusing   distractions, 
we  must  necessarily  feel  guilty  as  to  our 
way  of  projection. 

This  method  entails  sweeping  readjust- 
ments. To  begin  with,  author,  director, 
scene  designer  and  actor  must  become  com- 
pletely the  servants  of  the  play.  Each 
must  resist  every  temptation  to  score  per- 
sonally. Each  must  make  himself  a  free, 
transparent  medium  through  which  the 
whole  flows  freely  and  without  obstruction. 
No  one  at  any  moment  can  say,  "Ah,  this 
moment  is  mine !  I  shall  show  what  can  be 

26 


done  with  it."  There  is  no  part  of  the 
play  that  is  clone  for  the  benefit  of  any 
one.  It  must  all  be  inevitable,  impersonal 
and  untrammelled.  It  requires  a  complete 
surrender  of  selfishness.  In  fact,  it  de- 
mands of  everyone  the  honest  rigidity  of 
the  true  artist,  who  will  stoop  to  nothing 
because  it  is  effective  or  conspicuous  or 
because  "it  goes." 

It  is  the  opposite  of  all  that  has  be- 
come traditional  in  the  theatre.  It  is  the 
establishing  of  the  true  community  spirit 
in  a  work  that  is  essentially  community 
work,  and  it  is  not  the  glorious  adoption 
of  an  ideal,  but  the  stern  necessity  for 
self-preservation  which  the  very  method 
impresses.  For  woe  be  unto  the  one  per- 
son who  is  out  of  key  with  the  scheme 
once  it  has  been  set  in  operation.  He  will 
inevitably  make  himself  look  hopelessly  out 
of  place,  and  the  more  he  struggles  to 
stand  out  the  farther  aloof  and  more 
hopelessly  adrift  will  he  become. 

It  commands  honesty  and  unselfishness, 
and  nothing  recommends  it  to  me  more 
than  this — nothing  could  be  more  con- 
vincing proof  of  its  rightness. 

2^ 


©it 


III 


The  note  of  unconscious  projection 
must  first  be  struck  by  the  director.  If 
he  can  not  get  his  effects  in  this  way,  he 
can  scarcely  hope  that  the  people  with 
him  will  succeed.  It  is  always  my  aim 
to  get  a  play  completely  prepared  with- 
out anyone  realizing  just  how  it  was  done. 
I  want  the  actors  to  be  unconscious  of  my 
supervision.  I  want  whatever  direction 
they  require  to  come  to  them  without  their 
realization.  I  want  them  to  be  uncon- 
scious of  the  movement  and  the  "business" 
of  the  play.  I  want  it  all  to  grow  with 
them  so  easily  that  when  time  for  the 
first  performance  comes  they  scarcely 
realize  that  anything  in  particular  has 
been  done. 

The  first  step  in  unselfishness  must  be 
taken  by  me.  I  must  renounce  at  the  out- 
set all  temptation  to  be  conspicuous  in 
direction,  to  issue  commands,  to  show 
how  well  I  can  read  a  line  or  play  a  scene, 
or  slam  a  door;  to  ridicule  or  get  laughs 

28 


at  a  confused  actor's  expense,  to  openly 
criticize.  I  must  renounce  all  desire  to 
be  the  boss,  or  the  great  master,  or  the 
all-knowing  one.  I  must  guide  the  ship 
by  wireless  instead  of  attempting  to  drag 
it  through  the  water  after  me.  There 
are  any  number  of  actors  who  have  been 
with  me  who  firmly  believe  that  they  re- 
ceived practically  no  direction,  and  that  is 
exactly  as  it  should  be.  When  I  discover 
that  an  actor  is  becoming  conscious  of  me 
I  know  there  is  something  wrong  some 
place,  and  it  is  usually  with  me. 

The  two  essentials  in  this  kind  of  di- 
rection are  for  the  director  to  know  ex- 
actly what  he  wants  and  to  make  sure 
that  he  can  get  what  he  wants  from  the 
people  he  has  selected.  These  two  condi- 
tions put  an  end  to  all  confusion  at  the 
outset. 

Uncertainty  in  direction  must  inevitably 
result  in  uncertainty  in  performance. 
When  actors  discover  that  a  director  can 
not  make  up  his  mind  just  how  a  scene 
should  be  played,  and  when  they  see  him 
experimenting  with  them  they  instantly  be- 
come    conscious     of     something    lacking, 

29 


either  in  the  play  itself  or  in  the  director. 
This  is  a  dangerous  thought  to  set  up.  A 
company  under  these  conditions  becomes 
wabbly,  and  the  first  tendency  of  a  wabbly 
actor  is  to  overplay.  Once  an  actor  be- 
lieves himself  to  be  on  thin  ice  he  invari- 
ably steps  down  harder.  A  scene  that  is 
born  in  uncertainty  is  rarely  well  played. 

The  director  is  the  guide.  Th?  play  is 
the  unknown  region  through  which  he 
leads  the  actor.  He  must  know  the  paths 
and  the  turnings  so  well  that  he  never 
hesitates.  For  once  he  falters,  wondering 
if  he  is  headed  right,  the  actor  inevitably 
begins  to  look  around  for  his  own  way 
out. 

My  feeling  about  the  birth  of  a  play 
is  that  it  gradually  becomes  an  individual- 
ity, that  it  becomes  a  personality  of 
which  the  different  actors  are  organs  or 
members.  I  do  not  see  ten  or  twenty  in- 
dividuals moving  about.  I  see  only  one 
thing  made  of  ten  or  twenty  parts  that  is 
moving.  So  long  as  it  moves  properly  I 
am  totally  unconscious  of  its  parts.  The 
moment  I  become  conscious  of  a  part  and 
lose  the  movement  of  the  whole  I  know 

30 


that  something  is  wrong.  It  is  the  unfa- 
miliar sound  in  the  engine  that  warns  one 
that  some  part  is  not  functioning  prop- 
erly. That  is  the  time  to  stop  the  play 
and  investigate.  It  may  be  a  very  tiny 
things — a  movement  at  a  time  when  all 
should  be  still — a  speech  when  there 
should  be  silence — a  pause  when  some- 
thing should  be  happenings — an  unwar- 
ranted change  of  tempo,  or  any  one  of  a 
hundred  minor  or  major  things  that  re- 
move concentration  from  the  whole. 

The  stripping  process  begins  early.  I 
eliminate  all  gesture  that  is  not  absolutely 
needed,  all  unnecessary  inflections  and  in- 
tonings,  the  tossing  of  heads,  the  flicker- 
ing of  fans  and  kerchiefs,  the  tapping  of 
feet,  drumming  of  fingers,  swinging  of  legs, 
pressing  of  brows,  holding  of  hearts,  curl- 
ing of  moustaches,  stroking  of  beards  and 
all  the  million  and  one  tricks  that  have 
crept  into  the  actor's  bag,  all  of  them  be- 
traying one  of  two  things — an  annoying 
lack  of  repose,  or  an  attempt  to  attract 
attention  to  himself  and  away  from  the 
play. 

3i 


Every  movement  on  the  stage  should 
mean  something.  The  spectator  follows 
every  movement,  and  no  movement  has  any 
right  to  his  attention  unless  it  has  some 
significance. 

I  never  plan  the  "business"  of  a  play  in 
advance.  I  know  where  the  entrances  are 
as  the  scene  is  first  designed,  but  fre- 
quently after  going  over  an  act  once  these 
are  changed. 

I  am  opposed  to  the  old  method  of 
marking  out  the  "business"  in  advance,  be- 
cause at  the  outset  it  confines  the  move- 
ment and  tends  to  a  fixity  that  hampers 
free  flow.  The  first  two  or  three  times 
through  an  act  I  let  the  actors  roam 
about  the  scene  and  invariably  the  "busi- 
ness" solves  itself.  The  movement  ar- 
rived at  in  this  way  has  the  advantage 
of  having  been  born  in  action,  and  there  is 
essentially  a  feeling  of  life  about  it  that 
one  cannot  get  by  marking  directions  in 
a  manuscript.  Automatically  all  false- 
ness of  movement  is  denied  admission,  all 
crosses,  dropping  down  stage,  falling  up 
stage,  exchanging  chairs,  circling  pianos, 
wrestling    with    furniture,     and    all    the 

32 


^z 


r  ■      '  '  / 


strange  conduct  that  directors  of  past 
years  have  relied  upon  to  keep  actors 
busy.  The  police  crusade  of  some  time 
ago  that  kept  actors  moving  along  Broad- 
way was  only  an  open-air  phase  of  stage 
direction,  as  most  actors  have  suffered  it 
for  years. 
J=-  Extreme  simplification — that  is  what  I 
I  strive  for  incessantly — not  because  I  like 
simplicity.  It  isn't  a  matter  of  taste  or 
preference — it  is  a  working  out  of  the 
method  of  Unconscious  Projection.  It  is 
the  elimination  of  all  the  non-essentials, 
because  they  arouse  the  conscious  mind 
and  break  the  spell  I  am  trying  to  weave 
over  the  unconscious  mind.  All  tricks  are 
conscious  in  the  mind  of  the  person  who 
uses  them,  and  they  must  necessarily  have 
a  conscious  appeal.  I  want  the  uncon- 
scious of  the  actors  talking  to  the  uncon- 
scious of  the  audience,  and  I  strive  to 
eliminate  every  obstacle  to  that.  I  finally 
become  a  censor.  I  must  say  what  shall 
not  pass — and  therein  I  believe  lies  the 
whole  secret  of  direction. 


33 


IV 


The  true  test  of  performance  is  the  ease 
with  which  it  is  accomplished.  My  chief 
objection  to  all  theatric  devices  is  that 
they  indicate  a  straining  for  effect  which 
defeats  itself.  The  strain  is  a  thing  per- 
sonal to  the  author,  actor  or  director,  and 
it  instantly  distracts  the  audience  from 
the  effect  to  the  effort.  Just  as  an  audi- 
ence suffers  for  a  singer  who  is  struggling 
for  a  note  that  seems  dangerously  out  of 
reach,  it  suffers  for  an  actor  who  stresses 
himself  for  an  effect.  An  actor  should  be 
given  nothing  to  do  that  he  can  not  do 
easily,  and  furthermore  he  should  find  the 
very  easiest  way  he  can  accomplish  what- 
ever is  assigned  to  him.  This  is  an  essen- 
tial part  of  his  self-elimination.  He  must 
think  of  the  play  as  a  clean  ball.  When- 
ever it  is  tossed  to  him  he  should  pass  it 
on  without  smearing  it  with  his  perspira- 
tion. An  ideal  company  would  end  the 
performance  with  a  spotless  ball.  An  ac- 
tor must  say  to  himself,  "How  can  I  do 

34 


this  without  being  noticed,"  instead  of 
"What  can  I  do  to  make  myself  stand 
out."  With  the  latter  query  he  begins  to 
try,  and  with  trying  comes  strain,  and 
with  strain  artificiality  and  discomfort. 
He.  accomplishes  what  he  set  out  to  do. 
He  stands  out  much  as  a  carbuncle  does. 

The  whole  system  of  personal  emphasis 
in  the  American  theatre  has  led  to  the 
present  unadvanced  state  of  the  actor. 
There  is  no  greater  proof  of  its  fallacy 
than  its  failure.  All  are  straining  for  per- 
sonal success.  If  they  only  knew  that  the 
greatest  success  will  come  to  those  who 
can  most  completely  submerge  the  per- 
sonal. Theirs  is  essentially  an  art  where 
they  must  serve  unreservedly,  and  the 
great  vacancies  in  the  theatre  are  await- 
ing actors  big  enough  in  mind  and  char- 
acter to  surrender  themselves  completely, 
strip  themselves  of  every  conscious  trick, 
disdaining  to  court  approval  but  com- 
manding it  by  the  very  honesty  of  their 
aims. 

I  firmly  believe  that  an  actor's  mental 
attitude  is  instantly  conveyed  to  an  audi- 
ence.    I  further  believe  that  an  audience 

35 


unconsciously  appraises  his  character.  It 
soon  discovers  if  he  is  all  actor  or  part 
man,  and  its  appraisal  of  his  performance 
is  more  determined  by  its  unconscious  ex- 
ploration of  his  unconscious  than  by  any 
particular  thing  he  does.  Invariably  the 
actors  whom  the  public  has  loved  have 
been  people  who,  in  themselves,  possessed 
great  lovable  qualities.  They  were  not 
people  who  in  their  roles  assumed  a  lov- 
able nature. 

We  can  not  give  actors  qualities  they 
do  not  possess,  but  I  am  only  seeking  to 
point  out  that  the  audience  usually  gets 
what  is  inside  of  an  actor  much  more 
clearly  than  what  he  actually  does,  and  an 
actor  can  not  approach  his  work  selfishly 
without  conveying  his  attitude  to  the  pub- 
lic. We  let  all  of  this  pass  under  the  vague 
terms  of  personality  and  magnetism,  but 
I  do  not  believe  there  is  anything  vague  or 
mysterious  about  it.  I  believe  unconscious 
appraisal  reveals  to  us  the  character  of 
many  people  we  do  not  know  in  the  least. 
We  get  their  intent  from  what  they  do, 
and  it  is  by  their  intent  that  we  know 
them. 

36 


I  do  not  believe  it  possible  for  me  to 
pose  as  a  genuine  lover  of  the  theatre, 
seeking  in  my  way  to  bring  it  somewhere 
nearer  the  position  I  believe  it  should  hold. 
If  I  am  posing  my  work  must  betray  me, 
and  betray  me  to  many  people  who  will 
never  see  me.  We  of  the  theatre  are 
touching  the  public  mind,  and  if  we  com- 
plain of  our  state  it  is  because  the  public 
mind  has  sounded  ours. 

It  isn't  dramatic  schools  we  want  or 
courses  in  playwriting.  All  these  are 
purely  surface-scraping  efforts  that  get 
nowhere.  What  we  all  need  is  a  thor- 
ough mental  house-cleaning.  We  need 
some  one  to  bring  home  to  us  clearly  that 
ours  is  a  profession  that  deals  solely  with 
the  public  mind.  It  is  that  which  we  must 
satisfy,  and  the  only  instrument  that  we 
can  employ  is  our  mind — the  mind  of  the 
theatre,  and  before  we  can  make  it  ef- 
fective it  must  be  high — high  in  purpose, 
high  in  performance — for  the  low  mind 
must   fail,   must   destroy   itself. 

This  may  sound  like  moralizing.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  morals.  It  has  only  to 
do  with  love — love  of  our  work,  love  of 

37 


all  that  is  best  in  the  theatre,  contempt 
for  all  that  is  tawdry  and  vain  and  penny- 
catching.  And  I  believe  this  to  be  the  at- 
titude that  spells  success  for  all  of  us. 

There  is  nothing  so  ridiculously  non- 
commercial as  the  present  commercial 
theatre.  It  is  puttering  about  in  a  puny, 
one-sheet  way  with  what  could  at  once  be 
a  great  public  agent  and  a  great  indus- 
try. Instead  it  is  wasteful,  stupid,  stand- 
ing about  grimacing  like  a  tired  street- 
walker, praying  that  its  charms  might  en- 
tice two  dollars  and  the  tax  from  some 
lonesome  sailor. 


38 


Self-elimination,  unconscious  speaking 
to  unconscious,  an  unconscious  that  easily 
touches  the  common  complexes  of  the 
many,  these  are  the  fundamental  needs  of 
the  playwright.  I  am  assuming  that  he 
has  average  writing  ability  and  a  suffi- 
cient knowledge  of  the  theatre  to  be  prac- 
tical. Beyond  these  his  work  depends  en- 
tirely upon  liis  ability  to  surrender  all 
that  is  personal  emphasis  and  to  enter  into 
that  mind  that  is  common  to  all. 

There  are  brilliant  exceptions,  notably 
Shaw,  who  obviously  seeks  to  leave  a  heavy 
imprint  of  himself  on  all  that  passes 
through  him.  Yet  he  must  pay  the  price. 
The  world  questions  his  sincerity,  sus- 
pects him  of  primarily  seeking  to  regis- 
ter his  own  impression  of  himself.  And 
his  plays,  especially  his  later  ones,  are 
somehow  seen  through  a  shaggy  beard 
that  never  will  get  out  of  the  way.  It  is 
an  amusing  beard,  to  be  sure,  brittle,  at 
times  irresistibly  penetrating,  but  some- 

39 


how  it  always  remains  a  beard,  and  one 
prays  for  the  play  to  have  a  shave,  for 
Shaw  to  be  taken  into  another  room,  with 
his  writing  hand  left  behind,  free  and  un- 
trammelled, just  to  wander  on  for  a  time 
forgetting  its  close  relationship  to  the 
beard,  that  sorry  blanket  that  has  muf- 
fled a  great  mind. 

The  playwright  must  regard  himself  as 
the  instrument,  not  the  virtuoso.  He  must 
be  a  free  medium,  refraining  from  all  con- 
scious temptation  to  express  his  opinions 
or  to  reveal  his  rare  gifts  of  expression. 
If  his  opinion  is  honestly  founded,  it  will 
come  out  inevitably  through  the  conflict 
of  characters.  The  characters  will  speak 
and  not  the  playwright. 

When  a  playwright  talks,  the  spell  is 
broken.  The  audience  must  be  as  uncon- 
scious of  design  on  his  part  as  it  is  on 
the  part  of  the  ideal  actor.  The  whole 
thing  must  just  happen.  It  is  not  some- 
thing to  be  made  in  the  window. 

Necessarily  the  playwright  on  ap- 
proaching his  work  must  leave  himself 
free  for  all  expression  that  may  come 
through  him,  committed  to  nothing,  bound 

40 


t 


by  nothing,  rule  of  drama,  rule  of  logic, 
rule  of  conduct,  or  rule  of  life.  He 
should  have  no  fixed  idea  of  predominat- 
ing characters.  He  should  leave  his  char- 
acters to  work  out  their  own  predomi- 
nance. He  should  be  committed  to  no  cli- 
max, no  conclusion,  no  ending.  He  should 
refuse  to  twist  his  play  or  swerve  his 
course.  If  he  would  be  master,  he  must 
surrender  completely,  servant  to  all  that 
honestly  seeks  expression  through  him,  to 
the  extent  that  he  is  capable  of  uncon- 
scious submergence  and  free  from  conscious 
design  his  work  will  approach  greatness. 

He  should  so  freely  manipulate  his 
characters  that  their  movement  is  natural, 
that  they  enter  and  leave  the  action  with- 
out being  taken  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck. 

He  should  beware  of  taking  the  audi- 
ence up  blind  alleys.  All  that  he  estab- 
lishes should  lead  somewhere.  He  should 
avoid  every  situation,  every  speech, 
every  word  that  brings  the  audience  back 
to  conscious  adjustment. 

With  the  author,  as  with  the  actor  and 
the  producer,  the  ultimate  result  will  rest 
on  what  he  himself  is,  for  before  the  night 

41 


is  over  the  audience  will  have  made  an 
unconscious  appraisal  of  him  that  will  be 
close  to  the  fact.  "By  their  works  ye 
shall  know  them." 

With  the  present  standards  in  the 
American  theatre  success  very  largely  de- 
pends on  the  extent  to  which  an  audience 
can  associate  itself  with  the  central  char- 
acters of  the  play — the  extent  to  which 
the  audience  plays  the  play.  As  yet  we 
have  no  considerable  audience  that  can  en- 
joy an  abstract  view  of  a  play.  They 
must  be  a  part  of  the  play  themselves  or 
there  is  no  play.  They  like  to  play  Cin- 
derella and  Prince  Charming  and  Raffles 
and  Cleopatra  and  the  various  characters 
that  had  those  amazing  experiences  which 
can  only  be  felt  in  a  Harlem  flat  by 
proxy. 

All  the  repressed  desires  burst  forth 
into  flame  in  the  theatre,  and  for  a  few 
hours  they  have  full  sway,  to  be  silenced 
again  until  dreams  have  their  way. 

There  is  a  well-known  producer  who 
always  sums  up  failures  by  saying: 
"There  was  no  one  to  root  for."     In  his 

42 


way  he  has  expressed  all  that  any  analy- 
tical psychologist  could  offer. 

Again  many  people  find  a  certain  satis- 
faction in  the  theatre  in  seeing  all  that 
they  can  never  hope  to  be  set  up  for  ridi- 
cule. 

The  ignorant  urchin  girl  who  drops  in- 
to a  wealthy  home  and  instantly  confuses 
everyone  with  her  astounding  disdain  for 
their  way  of  life  is  sure  of  a  warm  place 
in  many  hearts.  The  reason  is  rather 
pathetic,  since  it  implicates  an  utter  sur- 
render to  the  existing  condition  of  all 
who  are  pleased,  for  no  one  laughs  at  a 
condition  he  believes  will  one  day  be  his. 

There  has  been  considerable  cheap  trad- 
ing in  this  form  of  comedy  and  drama  in 
our  theatre — too  great  a  tendency  to 
paint  well-bred  people  as  artificial  and  im- 
moral boors,  utterly  heartless  and  stupid, 
and  to  exalt  the  poor  for  their  sterling 
qualities  and  amazing  sense  of  humor.  It 
would  be  a  more  constructive  drama  that 
showed  that  heartaches  are  heartaches  in 
the  Avenue  or  on  the  Bowery,  and  that 
love     and     trouble     and     weakness     and 

i3 


strength  are  pretty  much  common  to  all 
kinds  of  people,  and  that  no  one  in  the 
world  has  a  monopoly  of  anything,  espe- 
cially trouble. 


44 


VI 

As  to  the  "new"  scenery,  much  has  been 
said  and  written,  and  most  of  it  beside 
the  point. 

One's  position  in  the  matter  is  entirely 
determined  by  which  mind  he  thinks  the 
stage  has  to  do  with,  the  conscious  or  the 
unconscious. 

Realistic  settings  are  designed  wholly 
for  conscious  appeal.  An  attempt  at  ex- 
act reproduction  challenges  the  conscious 
mind  of  the  audience  to  comparison. 
Comparison  of  the  scene  as  it  is  offered 
with  the  auditor's  conscious  knowledge  of 
what  it  is  supposed  to  reproduce.  If  a 
Child's  Restaurant  in  all  its  detail  is  of- 
fered it  remains  for  the  audience  to  recall 
its  memory  photograph  of  a  Child's  Res- 
taurant and  check  it  up  with  what  is  shown 
on  the  stage.  If  the  butter-cake  stove 
is  in  place,  and  the  "Not  Responsible  for 
Hats"  sign  is  there,  and  if  the  tiling  is 
much  the  same,  then  the  producer  has  done 
well.    He  has  been  faithful  to  Child's,  and 

45 


whatever  credit  there  is  in  being  faithful 
to  Child's  should  be  unstintedly  awarded 
him. 

Unfortunately  while  the  audience  has 
been  doing  its  conscious  checking  up,  the 
play  has  been  going,  and  going  for  noth- 
ing, since  any  form  of  conscious  occupa- 
tion must  necessarily  dismiss  the  play. 
Further  than  that  the  result  of  the  whole 
mental  comparing  process  is  to  impress 
upon  the  auditor  that  he  is  in  a  theatre 
witnessing  a  very  accurate  reproduction, 
only  remarkable  because  it  is  not  real.  So 
the  upshot  of  the  realistic  effort  is  further 
to  emphasize  the  unreality  of  the  whole 
attempt,  setting,  play  and  all.  So  I  sub- 
mit that  realism  defeats  the  very  thing 
to  which  it  aspires.  It  emphasizes  the 
faithfulness  of  unreality. 

All  that  is  detail,  all  that  is  photo- 
graphic, is  conscious.  Every  unnecessary 
article  in  a  setting  is  a  continuing,  dis- 
tracting gesture  beckoning  constantly  for 
the  attention  of  the  audience,  asking  to  be 
noticed  and  examined,  insisting  upon  its 
right  to  scrutiny  because  it  belongs.  But 
what  of  the  play  in  the  meantime  ?    What 

46 


are  mere  words  against  a  fine  old  spinet, 
or  delicate  situation,  in  front  of  a  grand- 
father's clock  that  is  crying,  "Look  at 
me !  I  am  two  hundred  years  old — the  real 
thing — I've  survived  a  thousand  better 
plays  than  this.  Look  at  me!  To  hell 
with  the  play !  Tick-tock-tick-tock — 
brrrrr."  And  there  is  the  dear  old  spin- 
ning wheel  and  a  bootjack  and  some  family 
chromos  and  Uncle  Abram's  sword  right 
under  his  crayon,  and  endless  knick- 
knacks,  whatnots  and  dust-collectors,  and 
your  eye  wanders  over  each  labored  detail 
and  later  on  you  are  conscious  that  some 
one  is  speaking.  It  is  some  actor.  "What 
is  he  saying?"  "Something  about  Aunt 
Jennie?"  Who  is  Aunt  Jennie?"  Aunt 
Jennie  has  been  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion for  three  minutes.  If  you  are  inter- 
ested in  the  play,  it  is  important  that  you 
know  about  Aunt  Jennie.  But  what  mat- 
ters, you  saw  Uncle  Abram's  sword,  and 
from  the  size  of  it  Uncle  Abe  must  have 
been  some  boy. 

Detail  has  been  the  boon  of  the  Ameri- 
can theatre  for  twenty  years,  detestable, 
irritating  detail,  designed  for  people  with 

47 


no  imagination — people  who  will  not  be- 
lieve they  are  in  a  parlor  unless  they  see 
the  family  album. 

And  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  the 
unenlightened  Chinese  for  centuries  have 
been  presenting  drama  to  unimaginative 
people  wherein  scenes  were  never  changed, 
and  palaces,  forests,  legions  and  hordes 
were  summoned  by  the  wave  of  a  property- 
man's  bamboo  stick. 

But,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  a  Gor- 
don Craig,  who  brought  the  imagination 
of  the  Orient  to  England,  and  of  course 
England  would  have  none  of  him.  Ger- 
many swallowed  him  through  the  gullet  of 
Max  Reinhardt,  and  the  "new"  movement 
was  on.  It  spread  to  Russia,  to  France,  to 
Italy,  to  America,  to  every  place  but  Eng- 
land, where  it  was  born. 

Here  we  have  failed  to  grasp  its  full 
significance.  There  is  still  a  feeling  that  it 
is  some  sort  of  affectation.  It  would  be 
like  us  to  call  a  revolt  from  affectation 
affectation. 

What  is  all  the  discussion  about  ?  How 
can  there  be  any  discussion?  Isn't  it  a 
palpable  fact  that  the  only  mission  of  set- 

48 


tings  is  to  suggest  place  and  mood,  and 
once  that  is  established  let  the  play  go 
on?  Do  we  want  anything  more  than 
backgrounds?  Must  we  have  intricate 
wood-turning  and  goulash  painting?  If 
so,  we  have  no  right  in  the  theatre.  We 
have  no  imagination.  And  a  theatre  with- 
out imagination  becomes  a  building  in 
which  people  put  paint  on  their  faces  and 
do  tricks,  and  no  trick  they  perform  is 
worth  looking  at  unless  they  take  a  rea- 
sonable chance  of  being  killed  in  the  at- 
tempt. 

The  whole  realistic  movement  was 
founded  on  selfishness — the  selfish  desire  of 
the  producer  or  scene  painter  to  score  in- 
dividually, to  do  something  so  effective 
that  it  stood  in  front  of  the  play  and 
shrieked  from  behind  it. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  find  an  un- 
selfish artist,  Robert  Edmond  Jones. 
Jones  only  hopes  for  one  thing  for  his  set- 
tings— that  no  one  will  notice  them,  that 
they  will  melt  into  the  play.  Naturally 
for  this  very  reason  they  were  conspicu- 
ous at  first  not  because  of  what  they  were, 
but  because  of  what  people  had  been  ac- 

49 


customed  to.  But  gradually  his  work  is 
being  noticed  less  and  less,  and  Jones 
knows  that  that  means  he  is  succeeding. 
That's  the  size  man  he  is.  And  when  the 
day  comes  that  no  one  ever  mentions  his 
settings,  he  will  breathe  deeply  and  say, 
"I  have  done  it." 

He  is  the  true  artist.  He  wants  noth- 
ing for  Jones.  He  wants  what  is  right 
for  the  thing  we  are  doing.  Given  twen- 
ty actors  with  a  spirit  as  fine  as  his,  and 
I  will  promise  you  a  reaction  such  is  now 
only  a  dream. 


So 


VII 

Author,  Actor,  Artist,  Director,  all 
working  as  a  harmonious  unit,  each  sup- 
plying just  the  suggestion  that  is  needed 
at  the  time  it  is  needed — all  speaking  the 
same  language,  as  it  were — each  fusing 
into  the  other  so  there  is  no  telling  where 
one  begins  and  the  other  leaves  off — that 
is  what  lifts  performance  from  the  one- 
finger  exercise  to  the  orchestrated  compo- 
sition. 

How  many  times  do  we  see  perform- 
ances wherein  each  actor  is  pursuing  a 
different  method  and  the  scene  painter 
disdains  to  have  anything  to  do  with  any 
of  them. 

Even  in  the  better  European  theatres 
there  is  frequently  evident  a  strange  lack 
of  agreement  between  actors  as  to  the  way 
of  the  play,  and  likewise  a  disagreement 
between  the  gesture  of  the  play  and  the 
gesture  of  the  background. 

With  the  introduction  of  the  plain 
background  it  became  imperative  that  the 

5i 


entire  action  and  movement  of  the  play  be 
simplified  since  every  movement  was  in- 
stantly thrown  forward  in  much  bolder  re- 
lief. Formerly  with  the  cluttered  settings 
much  of  the  gesticulation  and  restlessness 
was  swallowed  up  by  the  furniture  and 
hangings.  I  sometimes  believe  that  much 
of  the  old-fashioned  acting  was  due  to  an 
unconscious  effort  on  the  part  of  the  actor 
to  extricate  himself  from  the  furniture. 
He  had  a  sort  of  uncomfortable  feeling 
that  he  was  talking  from  under  a  couch. 
I  believe  that  similarly  stage  centre  was 
partly  popular  with  the  actor  because  it 
was  usually  the  one  clear  space  in  the 
scene  where  the  oppressiveness  of  the  up- 
holstery was  not  quite  so  much  felt. 

For  some  reason  the  European  directors 
failed  to  make  full  readjustment  when  they 
introduced  the  simplified  settings.  And 
without  readjustment  they  would  have 
been  better  off  to  have  continued  with  the 
realistic  settings  because  they  at  least  did 
not  set  up  such  a  distinct  and  shrieking 
clash  as  was  inevitable  with  a  Gordon 
Craig  setting  and  Robert  Mantell  acting. 

In    Reinhardt's     production    of    "The 

52 


Living  Corpse"  the  settings  for  the  most 
part  were  comparatively  simple.  Moissi, 
in  the  leading  role,  gave  a  characteriza- 
tion as  completely  free  from  all  that  was 
personal  emphasis  and  exaggeration  as  I 
ever  hope  to  see.  And  yet  surrounding 
him  were  some  of  the  strangest  of  pre-his- 
toric  methods.  The  contrast  was  gro- 
tesque. How  it  was  possible  for  actors  to 
be  in  the  same  city  with  Moissi  and  per- 
sist in  their  ridiculous  methods  seemed  be- 
yond explanation.  How  it  was  possible 
for  a  director  to  reconcile  in  his  own  mind 
such  totally  different  methods  in  the  same 
performance  was  equally  puzzling. 

Yet  I  saw  the  same  thing  in  each  per- 
formance at  the  Deutches  and  even  at  The 
Kammerspiele.  There  seemed  no  initial 
determination  as  to  the  spirit  of  the  per- 
formance. It  seemed  like  a  Romeo  of  1880 
playing  scenes  with  a  Juliet  of  1918  in  a 
setting  that  was  not  quite  in  accord  with 
either  of  them. 

It  is  impossible  while  speaking  of  Rein- 
hardt  to  pass  without  further  reference  to 
Alexander  Moissi.  He  is  fixed  vividly  in 
my  mind  as  the  one  person  who  stands  for 

53 


ail  that  is  ideal  in  the  actor's  attitude. 
Were  Moissi  to  walk  into  a  manager's  of- 
fice seeking  leading  roles,  he  would  prob- 
ably never  get  an  engagement.  He  is  un- 
dersized, frail,  short-sighted,  plain  to  the 
point  of  homeliness — not  the  homeliness 
that  is  attractive.  But  the  man  has  some- 
thing, and  when  it  begins  to  speak  to  you 
the  homeliness  is  gilded  by  a  sort  of  glori- 
fication. He  is  irresistible.  You  hang  on 
every  word,  every  movement.  His  face  is 
so  strangely  telegraphic  that  you  watch  it 
for  every  signal.  Somehow  what  he  says 
doesn't  matter,  what  he  does  seems  almost 
nothing,  yet  he  takes  you  so  completely 
that  the  theatre  disappears.  You  are  in 
space  with  a  glowing  soul  and  it  seems 
to  bring  you  into  complete  understand- 
ing of  all  that  is  human,  frail  and  strong, 
suffering  and  triumphant.  He  seems  to 
lead  you  into  a  sort  of  self-exploration 
and  reveals  to  you  impulses  of  which  you 
have  been  only  vaguely  aware,  emotions 
that  you  have  but  faintly  felt.  What  is 
it  that  the  man  has?  It  surely  cannot 
be  explained  in  terms  of  the  theatre.  Per- 
haps his  is  a  great  soul  so  fine  that  it  is 

54 


close  to  the  surface  and  easy  of  revela- 
tion. Perhaps  his  command  of  us  is  by 
right  of  his  innate  fineness,  his  deep- 
seated,  unconscious  love  for  all  that  is  hu- 
man, all  the  faults  and  virtues,  all  that  is 
ugly  and  beautiful,  all  that  is  we. 

Imagine  anyone  trying  to  teach  Moissi 
to  act.  Imagine  trying  to  secure  by 
technique,  by  trick  of  voice  or  gesture,  by 
stilted  strutting,  or  vapid  ingratiation  the 
sort  of  reaction  that  Moissi  commands 
with  the  use  of  none  of  these.  He  has 
no  devices.  He  seeks  no  effect.  He 
commands  by  pure  earnestness  and  by  an 
impersonal  concentration  that  is  almost 
uncanny.  He  is  at  all  times  the  servant 
of  the  play,  and  its  master. 

Were  I  obliged  to  let  my  whole  theory 
of  Unconscious  Projection  rest  on  one  ex- 
ample I  would  choose  Moissi,  the  one  ac- 
tor I  have  seen  who  is  most  completely 
liberated  from  all  the  traditions  of  act- 
ing and  the  theatre,  the  one  man  who  ap- 
parently dismisses  completely  all  idea  of 
self,  success  or  conquest,  the  one  man  who 
has  reduced  simplification  and  elimination 
to  its  seeming  last  analysis. 

55 


And  I  would  ask  you  to  choose  from 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  the  actor  most 
highly  trained  in  all  the  mechanical 
science  of  the  theatre,  the  handsomest  ac- 
tor if  you  would,  and  actor  of  overpower- 
ing physical  charm  and  manner,  an  actor 
with  a  voice  that  could  sound  all  the  notes 
from  the  pipe-organ  to  the  ukelele,  an 
actor  whose  sense  of  light  and  shade  and 
values  and  contrasts  had  been  trained  to 
their  highest  effectiveness,  and  I  would 
have  you  give  them  parts  in  the  same  play. 
Let  your  actor  play  the  lover  and  Moissi 
the  janitor  or  let  Moissi  play  the  lover 
and  your  actor  the  janitor.  It  wouldn't 
matter  in  the  least.  I  would  leave  the  de- 
cision with  you. 

Does  this  sound  like  too  much  praise 
for  a  man?  It  isn't  praise  for  a  man.  No 
man  is  worth  it.  It  is  bowing  down  be- 
fore an  idea.  And  Moissi  stands  for  that 
idea.  To  the  extent  that  other  actors  can 
succeed  in  adopting  it  they  will  approach 
his  high  place.  What  we  can  accomplish 
by  ourselves  is  of  no  importance  since  in 
a  brief  time  it  must  disappear.  What  we 
can  accomplish  in  the  projection  and  fos- 

5<5 


tering  of  an  idea  is  of  all  importance  since 
that  will  go  on  long  after  we  are  forgot- 
ten. If  while  we  are  here  we  can  place 
our  hands  on  the  revolving  globe  and  give 
it  a  slight  push  in  the  right  direction  the 
result  must  necessarily  outlive  our  effort 
but  if  we  are  merely  hanging  on,  going 
around  with  it,  trying  to  make  ourselves 
believe  we  are  occupying  a  conspicuous 
place  in  the  scramble  it  will  be  but  a  short 
time  before  we  are  thrown  off  and  for  a 
moment  at  least  the  world  will  be  relieved 
of  the  burden  of  swinging  us  around. 


<v 


VIII 

The  removal  of  the  fourth  wall  in  no 
sense  removes  from  the  stage  director's  re- 
sponsibility the  fact  that  the  wall  is  still 
there.  Yet  practically  all  stage  direction 
not  only  removes  the  fourth  wall  for  the 
benefit  of  the  audience  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  eliminates  all  sense  of  it. 

It  is  rather  an  amazing  kind  of  direc- 
tion that  lines  two  or  three  people  at  the 
curtain  line  facing  the  audience  to  play 
a  scene.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  are 
comfortably  carrying  on  a  conversation 
while  lined  up  facing  a  wall. 

Of  course  this  would  be  an  extraord- 
inary set  of  positions  to  take  and  the  only 
upshot  is  the  complete  removal  of  all 
sense  of  illusion  as  to  the  confines  of  the 
room.  It  wanders  out  over  the  footlights 
and  through  the  auditorium  and  for  all 
we  can  tell  the  carriage-starter  may  be 
standing  in  the  millionaire's  library. 

It  is  well  at  the  outset  so  to  arrange 
the  furniture  of  the  room  that  there  is  a 

58 


suggestion  as  to  just  where  the  fourth 
wall  is.  By  obliquing  furniture  at  the 
curtain  line,  or  by  having  it  backed  to  the 
audience,  a  suggestion  as  to  the  confines 
of  the  room  can  easily  be  obtained  and 
this  immediately  helps  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  "business."  Obviously  scenes 
played  down  close  will  not  be  directly  fac- 
ing the  audience.  In  order  to  have  a 
scene  played  facing  the  audience  it  is  es- 
sential to  have  a  suggestion  of  some  fur- 
nishing closer  to  the  audience  than  the 
place  of  the  scene.  I  like  whenever  pos- 
sible clearly  to  establish  the  room  line  by 
having  some  one  sit  almost  back  to  the 
audience  playing  into  the  room  or  up 
stage. 

Throughout  the  play  I  refrain  in  in- 
terior scenes  from  having  speeches  read  di- 
rectly to  the  audience  unless  people  are  so 
placed  that  they  would  obviously  have  to 
avoid   doing   so. 

The  value  in  this  is  not  only  to  con- 
tribute to  the  illusion  of  the  room  and  to 
make  the  positions  of  the  people  seem 
plausible  but  there  is  a  sort  of  exclusion 
from   the   actor's    attention   of   the   audi- 

59 


ence  which  I  invariably  seek  to  empha- 
size. It  is  quite  essential  for  the  reaction 
that  I  seek  that  we  never  do  anything  for 
the  benefit  of  the  audience. 

The  elimination  of  the  "aside"  was 
largely  defeated  by  the  tendency  of  di- 
rection to  read  dialogue  to  the  audience. 
An  actor  who  obviously  turns  from  the 
person  to  whom  he  is  talking  to  say  a 
line  of  the  dialogue  to  the  audience  is 
reading  an  "aside."  He  is  taking  a  line 
away  from  the  play  and  presenting  it  to 
the  audience.  In  the  same  way  the  solil- 
oquy is  still  with  us.  Many  times  we  see 
actors  extricate  themselves  from  the  scene 
they  are  playing  to  acquaint  the  audience 
with  something  connected  with  the  plot. 
This  is  obviously  soliloquy,  the  only  dif- 
ference being  that  the  actor  is  not  alone 
on  the  stage  while  he  indulges  in  it. 

In  fact  there  are  few  of  the  faults  of 
the  very  old  theatre  that  are  not  still  with 
us.  The  prepared  exits,  the  speeches  at 
the  door,  the  exits  laughing,  exits  sob- 
bing, exits  hesitating,  the  standing  in 
door-ways  to  watch  some  one  off  so  that 

60 


any  applause  they  may  receive  will  not  be 
interfered  with,  are  still  with  us. 

There  is  no  travesty  of  the  old  meth- 
ods which  with  slight  readjustment  would 
not  hold  for  much  that  passes  as  stage 
direction  today. 

The  whole  difficulty  can  be  traced  to 
one  source,  trying  to  make  good  instead 
of  trying  to  be  good,  and  the  latter  is 
so  much  easier  than  the  former  than  one 
wonders  why  they  persist. 

Honesty !  Honesty !  Honesty !  That 
is  all  we  want.  Do  things  as  they  should 
be  done  and  let  the  results  take  care  of 
themselves. 

We  are  not  tired  people  with  trained 
bears  anxious  to  hear  the  rattle  of  pen- 
nies in  tin  cups.  We  are  bigger  than 
pennies  and  approval.  We  are  big 
enough  to  demand  our  own  approval  and 
when  we  have  that  we  can  dismiss  from 
our  minds  those  who  do  not  approve  us 
and  those  who  do  approve  all  that  we  have 
passed  and  cast  off  and  would  not  resume 
for  all  the  approval  of  a  world  chorus 
sung  every  day  at  sundown. 


61 


IX 

Possibly  there  is  no  influence  more 
deadly  to  the  development  of  the  theatre 
in  America  than  indifferent  dramatic 
critics.  Once  they  reach  the  weary  state 
of  mind  that  robs  them  of  the  enthusiasm 
to  assail  the  spurious  and  foster  the  real, 
the  one  road  for  advanced  theatre  prop- 
aganda is  closed. 

If  they  seem  lax  there  is  much  to  be 
said  in  their  defence.  They  have  wan- 
dered the  desert  of  theatre  mediocrity  and 
if  the  mirages  attract  them  it  is  only  evi- 
dence of  their  thirst.  They  are  not  alone. 
Many  others  who  still  stubbornly  cling  to 
the  idea  that  the  theatre  should  play 
some  significant  part  in  their  lives  have 
equally  parched  tongues. 

Yet  the  dramatic  critic  is  the  sentry. 
He  has  no  right  to  get  tired  and  when 
he  reaches  the  state  of  complete  weari- 
ness he  should  ask  for  relief.  When  he 
is  too  tired  to  challenge  the  tawdry  and 

62 


too  weary  to  welcome  new  promise  his  day 
of  service  is  done. 

I  have  very  much  the  same  idea  of  the 
dramatic  critic  as  I  have  of  the  author, 
the  actor,  the  artist  and  the  director.  In 
the  first  place  I  would  have  him  love  the 
theatre,  and  in  the  next  place  I  would 
have  him  liberated  from  any  desire  to  be 
personally  effective  in  connection  with  it. 

By  loving  the  theatre  I  mean  that  I 
would  have  him  jealous  of  it,  ready  al- 
ways to  resent  and  resist  its  misuse,  ut- 
terly without  sympathy  or  regard  for  all 
that  he  felt  false  and  penny-snaring  in  it, 
cruel  to  those  who  have  no  regard  for  it, 
callous  to  all  the  cheap  devices  that  have 
cluttered  up  a  potentially  fine  institution, 
castigating  producers  who  impose  spuri- 
ous wares,  slaying  directors  and  actors 
who  obviously  bring  no  thought  or  hon- 
esty to  their  work,  discontented  with  all 
that  is  unreal,  deteriorating  and  emaci- 
ating. 

I  would  see  them  constantly  scrutiniz- 
ing the  intent,  the  intent  of  the  author, 
producer,  actor,  everybody  concerned. 
"Why  do  you  do  this  ?"    On  their  decision 

63 


I  would  have  the  nature  of  their  criticism 
rest. 

As  a  producer  I  pray  that  whenever  I 
resort  to  cheap  tricks  they  flay  me  alive. 
If  I  choose  a  play  of  no  merit  I  ask  them 
to  castigate  me.  If  I  can't  find  actors 
and  direct  them  into  giving  a  perform- 
ance that  at  least  seems  intelligent  I  ask 
them  to  crucify  me. 

I  want  no  praise  for  bad  work.  I 
scorn  the  man  who  offers  it.  I  want  al- 
ways to  have  my  intent  examined,  my  exe- 
cution scrutinized.  If  they  find  me  stoop- 
ing to  sham  devices,  if  they  find  me  care- 
less or  crass,  cheap  or  vulgar,  my  head 
is  on  the  block  for  them. 

And  I  would  like  to  see  them  the  same 
with  every  other  producer.  I  would  like 
them  to  shout  for  better  and  better,  and  I 
believe  if  they  do  better  will  come. 

But  for  God's  sake  I  pray  to  you, 
"Don't  get  sleepy  and  full  of  meaningless 
mumblings,  and  don't  be  impressed  by  any- 
one unless  he  impresses  you  by  his  new 
work.  Don't  write  obituaries  and  epi- 
taphs and  reminiscenses.  Have  nothing  to 
do    with    morgues    or   graveyards.     Keep 

04 


alive  and  awake  and  insistent  and  enthu- 
siastic and  forever  ready  to  knock  the 
first  head  that  shows  in  the  wrong  alley 
and  grab  any  hand  that  shows  in  the  right 
one. 

"And  don't  use  criticism  to  impress 
yourself.  You  haven't  any  right  to  do 
it.  You,  yourself,  mean  nothing  in  the 
matter.  You  are  simply  the  instrument, 
as  we  are  the  instruments,  and  if  you  are 
a  good  instrument  you  need  not  be  con- 
cerned about  how  you  come  out.  Others 
will  take  care  of  that  and  much  better 
than  vou  can." 


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